


Come dance with me

by rymden



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Canon Asexual Character, Dirty Talk, Fluff, Hair-pulling, M/M, Oral Sex, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, Vaginal Fingering, ballet dancer!jon, jon is a trans nb man who uses he/him, stage technician!martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:48:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27271450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rymden/pseuds/rymden
Summary: Despite the looming debut of their performance Jon's mind has been wandering most of the day, allowing for minor mistakes in his dancing that were definitely caught by the other dancers, some of which even shot him dirty looks from time to time.Martin is distracting in the worst way possible and he is going to have to find a way to get him out of his head– orat least, find some outlet for this infatuation.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 8
Kudos: 141





	Come dance with me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bloodsbane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloodsbane/gifts).



> this au started out as a thread i made on twitter a while ago! bloodsbane suggested i write a scene from this au when i asked for prompts so here it is c: it got away from me a bit but i did have fun writing it so thank you for that!
> 
> both jon and martin are trans in this.
> 
> language used for jon is: clit, cunt, entrance, breasts and tits.
> 
> for martin i used: dick and cock. there's also a moment where jon asks if anything is off-limits and martin replies he doesn't want anything inside of him. he does't elaborate on it though

“Good Lord…” Jon mutters, leaning down to rub his sore foot through the worn material of his pointe shoe. It doesn’t help ease the pain in the slightest.

Despite the looming debut of their performance his mind has been wandering most of the day, allowing for minor mistakes in his dancing that were definitely caught by the other dancers, some of which even shot him dirty looks from time to time. He tends to fall into a hyperfocus when he is doing ballet, in complete control of every part of his body, but not today. His thoughts keep drifting to that of the stage technician with the round cheeks and strong arms running about in the concert hall, carrying props from one end to another and stopping occasionally to tinker with the light board. He’s distracting in the worst way possible, Jon has found.

Martin Blackwood is his name. A techie who works at the venue they’re performing at. He’s been perfectly lovely to all of the dancers when they speak, which admittedly isn’t that often, but Jon has been getting on well with him in the couple of weeks they’d been practising there. He’d haltingly introduced himself when he spotted Jon waiting for the other others to arrive, inevitably early to their first rehearsal on-set. They’d gotten to talking and it turned out that Martin was very excited to have a ballet performed there– something he was sure he’d never be able to see in person. It was more of a venue for bands that fit with its nightclub-like atmosphere so his worries were not unfounded. Apparently, there was something about it that the director thought suited the modern twist he’d made to Tchaikovsky’s classic  _ Swan Lake,  _ so that’s where they ended up.

In Jon’s opinion, the “twist” was really quite pretentious and not nearly innovative as the director claimed it to be, but as long as he gets to dance that’s all that matters. Martin had been surprised to hear him say this, letting out a startled laugh around his own cigarette. It had done something to Jon’s insides, a warmth blooming in his chest at the sound. He had a lovely laugh.

So that’s how Jon found himself following Martin with his eyes whenever he came into view, breaking him out of his focus and earning a few harsh words from the choreographer with every misstep.

Sighing, Jon straightens up and gets into position, ignoring the dull pain in his feet and  _ attempting  _ to ignore the technician chatting with one member of the staff, gesturing to a piece of equipment behind them. For a moment, their eyes meet and Martin gives him a shy smile, just a tug of lips, really, but it’s enough for heat to gather in Jon’s cheeks.

Martin is distracting in the worst way possible and Jon is going to have to find a way to get him out of his head– or _at_ _least,_ find some outlet for this infatuation.

After another harsh few hours of honing the choreography his  _ everything _ is sore. He doesn’t even want to think about the blisters he knows he’s developed.

The relief of pulling off the pointe shoes washes over him like a tide as he puts them aside, dangling his legs off the edge of the stage. As much as he loves ballet it really does a number on his body.

It’s worth it though. It always is.

“That was a long rehearsal,” a voice breaks through his thoughts. Jon glances up and the first thing he sees is a pair of gentle brown eyes looking back at him.

“You could say that,” Jon sighs, carding a hand through his hair, finally free of the high bun he’d put it in.

Martin shakes his head, making a sympathetic sound. “I always seem to forget how much work goes into ballet. It seems so effortless,”

“Thanks. That’s why we train so much,” Jon shrugs. “I’ve been at it since I was eight, but it’s still really hard work to make it seem ‘effortless’.”

“Since eight?” Martin gasps. It brings a smile to Jon’s face, seeing someone react so earnestly. These days he mostly knows people who either dance themselves or work with dancers so it’s been a while he got to impress someone with that little fact about himself. “Wow, that’s– that’s incredible. I don’t think I’ve stuck with  _ anything _ for that long,”

“It was more of my grandmother’s thing at first, to be honest, but it grew on me. I love the feeling of losing yourself to the motions of ballet. It’s… cathartic, once you get in the zone.” he finishes, leaning back on his hands and arching his back to stretch it out. He can hear Martin inhale sharply when he does.

Usually doesn’t care for people finding him attractive. It’s not something he engages with unless it’s someone Jon finds himself thinking about in terms that go beyond colleagues– if one could even call them that– and Martin has managed to become someone he  _ does  _ think about in that way. The dimple in Martin’s left cheek that appears when he smiles and how he’ll hum along to the music when they rehearse on stage; the strength of his careful hands, carrying heavy equipment like it’s nothing, and how Jon is certain Martin could heft him up and push him against the wall if he wanted...

Sitting up properly, back a little straighter, he suppresses all of that. He should not get involved with someone who works where he’ll be spending so much time in the upcoming month he tells himself; best case scenario it would be awkward if things don't work out between the two, worst case scenario it could interfere with their work.

Meeting his eyes again, a warm brown that shines gold when the lights ahead flicker across his face  _ just right, _ Jon’s resolve immediately crumbles.

“That must be nice,” Martin breathes. It takes Jon a second to remember their ongoing conversation. “Losing yourself like that.”

“Yeah. It is,” he hums. Glancing around the room he notices they’re the only people there. The others must have left in a hurry, he concludes, or his sense of time is as bad as he fears it is. 

“Actually, will there be any other performers after this?” Jon blurts out.

Martin chews on his lip, thinking. He tries very hard not to let his gaze drop. “No, not that I know of. Why?”

“If it’s alright I’d like to stay and practice a bit more. I wasn’t, uh, properly focused today so I’d like to catch up a little now.”

“Oh, uh, yeah. You can stay. That’s not an issue.” Martin pauses, wringing his hands. “Do you mind if I watch for a bit? I have to finish up a few things, but after that I’m done for the day.”

“That’s fine,” Jon says. He’s not a stranger to people watching him practise, one has to be used to it to perform onstage, but it being just the two of them in a room of this size… It feels intimate, somehow. “I’m going to get started now.”

Martin nods, retreating to the far back of the hall to continue his work. Putting his pointe shoes back on is quick work, neatly tying the ribbons around his ankles before rising to his feet. For a moment he considers asking Martin to turn on the music but ultimately decides against it. He knows it well enough to recreate it in his mind, and judging by the humming coming from the other man, Martin does too.

Starting with the parts he finds the easiest Jon works his way through the choreography, scene by scene. It doesn’t take long for him to get into it, the flow of the dance overtaking him, particularly that of  _ the Little Swans _ . It’s a playful act, one he adores: four ballet dancers crossing the stage in perfect unison _ ,  _ holding hands to imitate swans huddling together for protection. On his own it’s not nearly as impressive, but he finds the repetition grounding.

Occasionally he’ll glance over at Martin, who ends up at the first row after he’s finished his tasks, watching Jon with interest. He feels himself blush at the attention; it’s almost like he’s performing for Martin and Martin alone. The thought has him biting back a smile.

“That barely looked like practise to me,” Martin’s voice rings out in the empty room, startling Jon from where he is currently chugging his water to the side of the stage. “You’re, uh, really good.”

He hums into the bottle, not quite ready to put it down just yet. Tipping back his head to get the last drops, he spots Martin moving towards the stage from the corner of his eye.

“Thank you,” he smiles, coming to meet Martin at the edge of it. The lights are dimmer than they were earlier in the day, something Jon chalks up to the gloomy autumn evening outside the windows, and in it he can see the faintest pinkish glow beneath the freckles on his cheeks.

Warmth pools in his stomach at the sight and he finds he doesn’t quite want to say good-bye just yet.

Martin steps up on the small stairway in the middle of the stage. “Ballet’s really beautiful. I’m looking forward to seeing everyone in full costume,” he says.

“They’re going to be different than the traditional outfits actually. I don’t know if I can tell you this,” Jon starts, leaning in conspiratorially. It earns a giggle from Martin, curiosity shining in his eyes. “but they’re going to be more… Abstract. The swans for one will be wearing flowy dresses with sheer white fabric instead of the usual tutus. I don’t know much more about it, but Princess Odette will be wearing something resembling a long wedding dress.”

“That sounds delightful,” Martin smiles.

“Don’t tell anyone I told you this,” Jon says, hoping it comes out as humorous as he intends it to be. 

It seems to land because Martin mimes zipping his mouth closed, turning the end of it like a key and throwing it over his shoulder. It doesn’t make any sense, but Jon finds it incredibly endearing.

“Perfect. Let’s hope no one finds the key,”

Martin takes a step back and pretends sweeping it away with his foot, pulling a chuckle from Jon. It’s only then he realises how close they had been standing, and watching Martin hesitantly close the distance between them again tells him he had noticed it too. His heart beats loudly in his ears and he thinks not for the first time that this isn’t a good idea.

“It’s taken care of now.” Martin says lightly, exaggeratedly dusting off his hands.

Another step and Jon would be able to feel the heat of his breathing against his skin; another step and he would get to know how those arms would feel around him. Another step and-

“... Actually, do you think you’re done for the day, Jon? I think it’s about time I lock up.” Martin continues, interrupting his internal pep-talk. He doesn’t know whether to be grateful or disappointed.

“Oh! I, ah– yes. I’ve finished. I just have to fetch my things and then I’m ready.”

“Okay, good. Good.” Martin sounds a bit disappointed himself, but with one glance at the clock hanging above the entrance Jon doesn’t blame him for cutting their time short. It’s about time to head home and feed The Admiral anyway, seeing as his flatmate will be working late tonight.

Jon is quick to gather his things, darting backstage to get his messenger bag and pull on his battered docs. When he’s back on the stage Martin has already gotten his jacket and is waiting for him in the middle of the hall. Shrugging on his coat Jon makes his way towards him, again made aware of just how big the room is with only the two of them in it.

“Ready?”

“Yeah.”

He notices Martin glancing at the pins on his messenger bag; a trans flag with his pronouns on it and a stylised spaceship from the neo-folk band he’s followed since university, but he doesn’t comment on them. Jon sincerely hopes it’s not going to be a problem for him.

The door closes heavily behind them. Martin locks it, hands moving almost automatically. Jon briefly wonders how many times he has stayed late enough to be the one to lock up. 

“Jon, I–” he falters, turning to face him. He’s chewing his bottom lip again, caught between his teeth. It seems to be a habit of his, Jon notes. A very distracting one. “I, uh, had a nice time. Talking to you, and, ah, watching you practise. Admittedly, I don’t know much about ballet but I think it looked beautiful. You move beautifully. I know we see each other most days because of your, hah,  _ strict schedule _ , but I wanted to ask for your number… If that’s okay with you. Of course you can say no. Actually, I’m being stupid. Feel free to ignore me, you don’t have to–”

Jon huffs a laugh, successfully cutting off the panicked ranting. “I had a nice time too.” he averts his eyes, heat rushing back into his cheeks. “I would like that. Your number, I mean. I’d like that a lot.”

Risking a glance at Martin and hoping he didn’t read it wrong, he releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Martin stares at him, eyes wide, almost comically so. It’s adorable.  _ Martin  _ is adorable.

Then, he finds himself leaning in slightly, head tipping back for accessibility. It’s subtle enough for it to be denied, but he’s proven not to have misinterpreted when Martin places a hand on his jaw, cradling it.

This close, Jon  _ can  _ feel his breath on his skin, warming it.

“You know, I–”

“Martin, there you are. I’ve been looking for you all over,” a voice intrudes on their moment. “Is your phone on silent?”

Jumping back, he looks over his shoulder and mumbles something. Jon doesn’t catch what he’s saying but he’s certain it’s a curse of some kind.

“Elias!” Martin exclaims with barely disguised frustration, stepping back from Jon entirely. The area that had been warmed by his hand is suddenly very cold. “Sorry. What did you want me for?”

“I would like a hand with something in storage,” he starts, eyeing Jon dubiously. Jon squints at him. “It can wait until tomorrow though if you’re not available. I see that you’re a bit busy right now.”

“It’s alright. I can stay a bit longer. I, I don’t have anything planned anyway,” Martin sighs. “Sorry, Jon. I have to do this. See you tomorrow?” he says, not meeting his eyes.

“Uh, sure,” Jon starts, but before he can get anything else out Martin is already on his way, back turned to him. There’s a tension to his shoulders that wasn’t there before. 

“Thank you, Martin. I promise I won’t keep you for long.” Elias tells him flatly, like it’s more of a courtesy than an actual promise. Jon wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case. They disappear around a corner, leaving Jon alone, feeling a little foolish.

Halfway through his commute home he realises he never did get Martin’s number.

True to Martin’s words, Jon’s schedule  _ is _ strict, so he finds himself back at the venue the day after. A small part of him dreads seeing Martin again, afraid to have fucked things up. It tells him that he really shouldn’t get involved and it’s not too late to keep away, that it’s easier to stay out of people’s business; a louder part of him, though, longs to see him again. Longs to see if yesterday’s near-kiss was simply a spur of the moment or if Martin actually feels the same.

Jon has never been one to jump into a relationship quickly– Lord knows he took his time admitting to himself that he even  _ liked _ Georgie back in school, but he’s trying to get better at not pushing his feelings away. He promised her he’d try to see if he could get a chance to talk to Martin and clear the air at the very least.

Sighing, Jon brushes a piece of hair behind his ear. He’s early, which in itself is not unusual, but the lack of a certain stage technician is. The logical conclusion behind Martin’s absence would be that something has come up, it has happened before after all, but that small, nagging part of himself tells him Martin regrets what almost transpired between them and is attempting to avoid him.

It grows bigger and bigger as the day goes on. Jon finds himself scared he really did read the situation wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Then, just before his first break, he spots a shock of ginger curls peeking through the entrance to the hall and Jon’s pulse picks up. Martin’s eyes find his immediately and something in him finally settles.

Martin gets on with work around the light and sound board at the end of the room. He doesn’t pay a lot of attention to Jon on the stage, but a handful of times his gaze does wander to where Jon is on the stage, and relief washes over Jon, successfully silencing the thoughts that had been bothering him all day.

After another thirty minutes of exchanging looks, finally,  _ finally, _ his break arrives. He nearly starts jogging soon as he’s gotten his pointe shoes off, kicking them to the side as he makes his way towards Martin.

“Hey,” he says, the gentle tug of a smile on his lips.

“Hey,” Jon returns, stopping in his tracks as soon as he reaches the row in front of Martin, not wanting to crowd him.

“I’m, ah, I’m sorry for yesterday,” his smile turns sour at the edges, an unhappy tilt to his eyebrows. “My boss is demanding, to say the least, so I kind of had to go with him. If he hadn’t arrived though…” he trails off, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“No, I get it,” Jon exhales. “I really do.”

“Good. Actually, I–” he glances beside Jon, where he was gathered with the other dancers. “Let’s talk somewhere not here?”

“Sure. Yeah,”

They barely make it until the main lobby until Martin breaks. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been feeling guilty all day. I-”

“It’s okay, it really is.” Jon is quick to reassure him, placing a hand on his forearm. Martin inhales, gaze darting between Jon and his hand. “I’ve been feeling a bit guilty as well,”

“Why?” Martin frowns.

“I, uh, was unsure if… If I was reading the situation wrong– which wouldn’t be the first time. It’s okay if, if that’s what made you go.”

Letting out a disbelieving laugh, the harsh lines in Martin’s face finally soften. “Christ, Jon,  _ I asked for your number. _ ”

“I know,” Jon replies, blush creeping up his cheeks. He definitely remembers that part.

Martin puts his hand over Jon’s, meeting his eyes as if to ask  _ Is this alright? _

Jon carefully reaches up to hold his face, thumb stroking over the mole beneath his eye, _ more than alright _ it says for him.

The sound of footfalls echo in the hallway, alerting them to the people around the corner. Determined not to be interrupted this time Jon pulls them to the closest door, flinging it open before dragging Martin inside. It’s a storage closet, he finds, cluttered with cleaning supplies and buckets of various sizes. Thankfully, Martin reacts fast enough to kick it closed behind them.

“I have to say, this is not what I expected coming into work today,” he says, confused but visibly amused at Jon’s actions.

“Me neither.” Jon agrees, entirely too aware of Martin’s hips pressed against his. It’s small. Small enough for the shelves to dig into Jon’s back. It’s not too bothersome though, he concludes, as Martin’s arms come up to bracket his head in an attempt to take up less space.

Outside, the steps grow louder and accompanied by them are voices, one of which belongs to Elias, saying something about the set pieces. Jon can’t find it in him to pay too close attention to his words when Martin is  _ right there, _ being his usual, distracting self.

There’s barely any light in there, the crack beneath the door being their only salvation from complete dark. When he’s sure they’ve passed the door Jon pulls the string of the single light bulb hanging above their heads. It doesn’t do much, but he doesn’t have to squint anymore to see Martin’s face.

It hits him only then that if he wants to move he’s going to rub against Martin no matter what. The thought sends a pang of arousal through him.

“I think they’re gone now,” he says.

“I think so too.” Martin replies.

Neither move.

“I’m sorry for pulling you in here. I panicked.”

Martin smiles, bowing his head as not to bump it on the light bulb. “That’s alright,”

The air hangs heavy between the two of them.

“I don’t usually do this sort of thing…” Jon mumbles, craning his neck to properly look him in the eye.

Martin parts his lips. They’re a pale pink in this low light. Slightly chapped. “Me neither.” Then, he leans down and closes the space between them. Jon hums into the kiss, fisting his hands in Martin’s jumper. It’s just a press of lips, but it sends tingles down his spine.

“I’m going to be late to practise.” Jon mumbles against Martin’s mouth.

“I’m going to miss lunch.” he shoots back. They kiss again.

Jon’s hand slips under his shirt, letting it rest on Martin’s stomach. He’s so warm. In return, Martin tangles his hand in Jon’s hair, tugging it gently, making him gasp. Martin takes the opportunity to trace his bottom lip with his tongue, taking it between his teeth. The moan Jon lets out seems to encourage him because he bites down lightly, earning another noise.

Pulling back a little, he kisses his lips again, and smiles. “Would you like to go further?”

“Please,” Jon’s eyelids flutter closed. Martin leans in again, placing open-mouthed kisses on his jaw and throat. There’s the faintest scrape of teeth against his skin, but it’s not enough to leave marks behind, which Jon is grateful for.

Martin’s free hand slides down Jon’s body, over his chest, down the planes of his stomach, before settling on his hip. Jon allows his own to travel up under Martin’s shirt, stopping when he reaches a familiar article of clothing.

He meets Martin’s eyes. “Wait– are you trans?” he asks, stroking the fabric under his fingers. It  _ has _ to be a binder.

Martin laughs, an adorable snorting sound escaping him. “Yeah. I thought you knew? I have a pin on my jacket, you know.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Jon mutters, embarrassed.

“Somehow, that falls in line with what I know about you,” he teases, rubbing circles into Jon’s hipbone. “Here, spread your legs a little.”

Upon doing what he’s told, a thigh finds its way between his legs, and on pure reflex he grinds down on it. Martin exhales shakily, clearly as affected as Jon is, and goes back to kissing him.

“Touch my chest…” Jon begs when they break apart for air, arching his back as much as he can in the cramped space. Martin doesn’t have to be told twice, squeezing a hand between their fronts to run a hand over his chest, slipping it under his tank top and sports bra. Jon’s breasts are modest. Barely a handful, but so,  _ so _ sensitive. As soon as he brushes his nipple Jon grinds down on his thigh again with a whine.

“Fuck, Jon,” he mumbles, hips twitching. Taking the hardened bud between his fingers, he pinches it lightly at first, then harder. Jon melts in his arms, mouth falling open to release a stream of whines. Martin watches in amazement at how fast he’s falling apart.

Tugging on his hair again, Jon’s head follows, exposing his throat to Martin who wastes no time pressing kisses to the skin there. He moves his leg to meet Jon’s movement, rubbing against his cunt through his leggings.

“Please,” Jon says, voice already wrecked. A full body shiver runs through Martin at it.

“Please, what?”

“I want your fingers, Martin.” 

He curses under his breath again and lets go of Jon’s hair to replace his thigh with his hand. Jon is damp through the layers of fabric, already wet enough to have soaked through his underwear.

“It’s too cramped to do this comfortably,” he says after a minute of trying to get his leggings off.

“Hang on, let me…” Jon murmurs. “Step back as much as you can.”

With his back pressed flush against the door, Martin watches as Jon awkwardly pulls down his trousers and underwear in one go, elbow colliding with the shelf behind him not once, but twice. Jon shoots him a half-hearted glare when he snickers at it. Soon though, Jon is completely bare from the waist down. Then, he stretches out his leg towards Martin, who takes the hint and slowly lifts it so that he can hook his ankle over his shoulder.

“Come closer now,” Jon says. He’s never opened his legs in this way for sex, cunt on display for whoever is in front of him. It feels good though, and he’s certain Martin can see just how wet he is from this position.

Martin holds his ankle, securing his leg, as he steps closer. His gaze wanders down his shin, thigh, in admiration. His free hand strokes down Jon’s side and over his stomach, reaching down to thumb at his clit. Jon moans, hips twitching, but in this position he can’t move his lower body much.

“You can let go of my leg now,” he instructs. Martin does so, instead choosing to cup his breast again under his sports bra, earning another moan. In the back of his mind, Jon is afraid someone will walk past and hear them– the door doesn’t have a lock after all, it would be so easy to catch them in the act– and it only serves to turn him on even more.

Martin rubs his clit in little circles, slick noises loud to their ears in the confined space, sliding a finger down to Jon’s entrance. He takes it without issue, so after only a few thrusts Martin adds another. It’s more of a stretch now. He fucks Jon slowly while rubbing his clit with his thumb. His hips stutter when Martin finds a particularly good spot, which he makes sure to hit with every thrust.

“ _ Martin _ ,” Jon groans, throwing his head back and in turn arching even more into Martin’s hand on his chest. He pinches his nipple again before going back to gently massaging it. Jon’s thighs begin to tremble slightly from how good it feels, and he knows he’s not going to last very long. Martin kisses his way up his jaw until he gets the hint and crushes their lips together, tongues meeting messily. Jon takes the opportunity to return the favour from earlier and pulls back a little to bite Martin’s bottom lip. He’s immediately rewarded with a punched out moan so he does it again, harder.

Martin’s own underwear must be damp at the very least with how turned on he is. He tries shifting his thighs to attempt to achieve some friction but it only succeeds in teasing him. Jon reaches up to card his fingers through his hair and he sighs sweetly into his mouth.

Martin works in a third finger, taking care to fuck Jon deep and slow, aiming for that one spot that makes his toes curl. Jon’s kissing is getting sloppier and sloppier as pleasure clouds his mind, allowing him to focus only on the attention his tits and cunt are getting.

“God, you’re so beautiful, Jon. I’ve thought so since I first saw you up on that stage. The way you dance– the way you  _ move.  _ I’ve been fantasising about all the ways I could position you and then fuck you,” he rambles into Jon’s ear. It’s clearly doing something for him, envisioning Martin fucking him with a strap-on as he’s dipping down in a  _ penché,  _ leg above his head. Jon is so  _ wet,  _ slick dripping down his thigh and smearing over his folds.

“Martin, I’m–  _ ah, _ close.” he cries, holding onto Martin the best he can.

“Come for me, Jon,” Martin murmurs into his ear, quickening his thrusts. It only takes a few more moments of Martin rubbing his clit while finger-fucking him for Jon to come, cunt gushing all over Martin’s hand. He fucks him through the aftershocks, only stopping when Jon hisses from overstimulation. 

He takes a minute to come down. Martin waits patiently, although his own dick is throbbing with need. He’s so turned on it  _ hurts. _

“I need my leg back.” Jon pants. Martin’s hands leave his body and he steps back as far as he can, bending a little to help Jon lower his leg back down. It’s shaky, to no one’s surprise, but he can stand without bracing against the shelves. “Your turn.”

“Are– are you sure? You don’t have to, and you do look kind of tired. I can take care of my–”

“I’m sure,” Jon smiles, cutting Martin off mid-rant. “Let me just get my clothes back on,” Pulling on his underwear and leggings is quick work, though he winces when he realises how damp they are and makes a mental note to change after they’re finished.

“How do you want me?” Martin asks.

“Stay there, I’m going to kneel,” Jon says, tying his hair up with the scrunchie around his wrist. “Pull down your trousers and pants, too, please. Is there anything that’s off limits?” he asks, settling down in front of Martin.

“Nothing inside, please. I’m not comfortable with that. Anything else is fine, though,” he responds as he’s shimmying out of his pants.

“Alright,” Jon gets between his spread legs and wastes no time in licking a stripe along his slit. Martin bites his lip to muffle his moan. He already knows he’s not going to last long.

One of Jon’s hands goes to his arse, groping it, while the other rests on his hip. He licks inside, lapping at Martin’s cock. It takes every ounce of self-control not to buck his hips to chase the sensation. He lets out a shaky breath, door creaking under his weight as he pushes back into it.

Jon hums, pleased with himself as Martin whines at the vibrations in his crotch. Wrapping his lips around his dick, Jon bobs his head slightly, mostly for show. The gasp above him confirms it was a good decision.

“Jon, Jon, Jon,” Martin chants his name like a prayer, bunching his hands in his shirt for something to hold on to. Jon speeds up a little, switching between tonguing the top of his dick and taking it fully in his mouth. Moaning openly now, Martin twitches, orgasm approaching rapidly.

Then, Jon looks up at him through half-lidded eyes, and Martin is a lost cause. He comes hard and gives into the urge to grind down on Jon’s tongue, dragging it out. Jon takes it in stride, relaxing his jaw so Martin can rut against him until he’s finished.

When Martin is satisfied, he jerks his hips back, sensitive. Jon gives him a moment, standing up and brushing the dirt off his knees. For a space that stores cleaning equipment it’s fairly dusty, Jon notes with distaste. As soon as Martin is dressed again he pulls Jon in for a last, lingering kiss. 

“I’d still like to have it, if that’s okay with you.” he says when they break apart.

“Have what?” Jon asks, puzzled.

“Your number.”

“Oh. Yes,” he breathes, leaning his forehead against Martin’s. “Definitely. Yes.”

Huffing a laugh, Martin smiles widely. “Perfect.”

“... Good Lord, I’m so late for rehearsal.”

“Most likely.” Martin agrees, a little manic. “I hope I don’t get fired for this… Worth it though,”

“Definitely.”

**Author's Note:**

> i cannot convey how much i admire ballet dancers for their hard work. seriously as i was researching for this fic i read that they train six days a week to keep in shape, i'm genuinely impressed...
> 
> also, you can find me on twitter @rymdens!


End file.
